


Dachstein

by BookwormBaby2580



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookwormBaby2580/pseuds/BookwormBaby2580
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy birthday to my very favorite Duck! I'm sincerely sorry for the lack of smut in this little ficlet. Maybe next year.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Dachstein

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NixDucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixDucky/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my very favorite Duck! I'm sincerely sorry for the lack of smut in this little ficlet. Maybe next year.

FELIX AND ANTON STEINMEIER  
  
_identical twins, climbed Dachstein Peak in Austria together 1,400 times._  
       Ripley’s Believe It or Not!  
  
After a while  
nobody inquired  
about the Steinmeier  
twins. They were  
off climbing Dachstein  
Peak again.  
  
Each time they swore  
would be their last,  
saying their dual  
farewells to the rocks  
and eidelweiss,  
the place where they  
shared their lunch.  
  
Their delicious lunch  
of bread, cheese,  
and pickles, and coffee  
from the thermos bottle,  
followed by the bar  
of chocolate they  
always broke in two.  
  
Each time they meant  
to go down and lead  
separate lives  
but it was more than  
they could do.

                        -Kay Ryan

 

 

Sam read the poem for the third time, which was dumb, because every time he read it he got more annoyed. He finished the final line and snapped the book closed. Then he opened it and read the poem all over again, then slammed it shut with a huff.

Stupid. Completely stupid. Stupid that two people would climb the same mountain a thousand times, and stupid that he would give a rat's ass about it. It was just a poem. Inspired by, of all things, _Ripley's Believe It Or Not_. Which was also stupid. And stupidest of all? He couldn't even figure out what it was about the poem was making him so goddamn twitchy.

He wasn't entirely sure why he'd bought the book in the first place. He'd wandered into a used bookstore while waiting for Dean to con a coroner into showing him a body, and the moment his eyes had fallen on it he'd felt the gut-wrenching jerk of memory. Jess, curled up in the shabby easy chair, one pink-polished foot draped over the arm, idly bouncing to a rhythm only she could hear. She'd been holding a copy of the same book, something she'd been assigned for her contemporary poetry class, and as soon as she'd seen him she'd started reading aloud.

Sam couldn't remember what the poem had been about because he'd been too busy listening to the way the words sounded in her mouth. She'd had such a beautiful mouth.

The vision of her had lingered on the inside of his eyelids as he paid for the book and walked out of the store.

And now he was sitting here obsessing over this _stupid_ poem, and it had to be something about Jess because all of this was about Jess, but he couldn't seem to put his finger on what it was that bothered him so much. Was this the poem she had read? Was it only bothering him because of some vague memory connection that he couldn't quite make? But why would Jess choose this poem to read to him—if she even had. Two Sisyphean brothers climbing the same damn mountain over and over again. Why would anyone do that?

It was just a dumb metaphor.

They probably weren't even real.

Steinmeier sounded like a made-up name.

If he Googled them, he wouldn't get any matching results.

But he wasn't going to Google them because it was just a stupid poem inspired by a stupid anthology of stupid facts.

He opened his laptop. He would probably forget all about it as soon as he found out if they were real.

Ten minutes later he snorted in disgust, having not only found three articles confirming the _Ripley's_ claim, but also having learned that Dachstein was the second-tallest mountain in the Northern Limestone Alps, and that to climb it involved a seven-thousand foot ascent. Which was perfectly useless information, because it was _just a stupid poem_.

Sam picked up the book and started to read it again, then, in a fit of pique, threw it across the room. He almost left it there, too, except it looked so sloppy lying there with the pages bent underneath the glossy cover. He retrieved it and flopped back down in his chair at the wobbly motel table.

What had Jess ever seen in contemporary poetry, anyway? Sam greatly preferred the Romantics and the Victorians. Those poets had _substance_. William Blake had written about grand ideas, not stupid _Ripley's_ freaks.

What he couldn't wrap his mind around was _why_. What was the point of climbing the same mountain fourteen hundred times? Even the second-tallest mountain in the Northern Limestone Alps couldn't have, what, more than a dozen passable routes to the top? Meaning, they'd made every climb literally a hundred times. After a while they could probably have done it blindfolded. They'd have memorized the positions of every rocky outcropping, every stand of sheltering trees, every unstable slope of accumulated snow. Even the really difficult portions would have been reduced to rote motions, each able to predict exactly where the other would drive his axe into the ice, and exactly the way his back would bow and his arm would curve when he stretched back to offer a helping hand. His brother would reach without having to look, clasp with the confidence of a thousand unfailed grips, haul himself up, lean back for the assist, draw his twin up beside him with the aid of perfected muscle memory.

What was the point of going back again and again when there was nothing new to discover? What made it worth the effort?

The motel room door swung open and Dean strode in, already shrugging out of his suit coat. "We got a winner!" he said as he worked the coat back onto the hanger inside the dry cleaning bag. "Get this. Before the vic died she made a nine-one-one call. She said her _dead husband_ was going through the house breaking all the windows." He gave Sam a significant look as he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants to the floor.

"So we're dealing with an angry spirit."

"Yep." Dean folded his pants and worked them up into the dry cleaning bag to clip them on the hanger with his coat.

"What about the other two? Any connection with the dead husband?"

"According to the coroner, who, by the way, moonlights as the local gossip columnist . . . yes. At least, one of them was on intimate terms with wifey."

"Affair?" Sam guessed.

"Yep." Dean moved to his duffel bag and dug out a pair of jeans. "Coroner says Lindy Piper was banging at least three men, including Vic 1. She wasn't sure about Vic 2, but she said he was having marital problems, so it would fit."

"And the third?"

"Preston Hobbs. He, by the way, is an old boyfriend of Piper's, who Vi says was turning tricks in Tijuana a year ago."

"Vi?"

Dean buttoned his fly. "The coroner. That woman knows _everything_ that goes on in this town."

"And she prints it all in the paper?"

"Only some of it. Vi knows when to be discreet." He flashed Sam a grin. "Spilled her guts for the badge, though."

Sam thought Dean might have had a little more going for him than the badge, but he kept his observations to himself.

"So we think the husband knew about the affairs, but didn't do anything about it while he was alive? And now that he's a ghost he's decided to get revenge?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe they killed him. Or maybe he was just a giant pansy and couldn't take a man-to-man fight."

"But we think the ghost probably has at least one more target?"

"We do." Dean stripped off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Ready to go dig a hole?"

Sam shoved the book into his laptop bag and pushed himself to his feet. "We're low on salt. I'll go buy some more."

"Grab a new pack of Zippos while you're out."

 

 

   |\ _( o)>  
(____)  

 

"Gimme some of that coffee."

"No, this is mine; you drank all yours."

"I'm not as young as you are. Staying up all night exhuming bodies is harder on me than it is on you."

"That's bullshit."

"Just a little sip. I'm barely keeping myself upright here."

"Jeez, fine, just—Dean! Don't drink it all!"

Dean drained the last of the coffee from Sam's paper cup and tossed it aside. "We should start bringing an industrial-sized thermos on these gigs."

"Whatever. Just keep shoveling. Who knows what kind of havoc Piper's Ghost is wreaking while you're having your little coffee break."

"Hey, I need more breaks because I actually move some dirt when I shovel. What is that?" He pointed to the arc of soil that Sam tossed beside the grave. "Did you sprinkle your shovel with a hint of dust before you lifted it?"

"I'm shoveling plenty of dirt."

"Sure, if you want to get to the casket sometime around Tuesday afternoon."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You always do this. You're the biggest baby I've ever seen when it comes to digging."

" _I'm_ the baby?"

"Yes. I've never seen you work harder at anything than you do at trying to get out of digging."

"You're delusional."

"You know I'm right," Sam said, and then played the usual trump card. "The only time you ever talked back to Dad was when you were trying to weasel out of your share of the work."

"That's _crap_ ," Dean snapped, but he was grabbing his shovel again and stepping back down into the partially-excavated plot. "I carried your scrawny ass when it came to digging."

Sam smirked. Invoking John Winchester worked every time. He slid easily into the rhythm, plunging the blade of his shovel into the earth while Dean was raising his, tossing a load of dirt while Dean went down for another shovelful. Each worked a side, taking turns at the mound that rose up between them. They'd done this so many times that they didn't even have to think about it any more. Dig, toss, lean to the left on the downswing avoid the shifting of Dean's shoulder. He could do it in his sleep—which was good, because Dean had stolen the last of his coffee. They dug deeper and deeper, until they were waist deep, shoulder deep, until the mounds of earth on the side of the irregular-shaped hole raise above their heads and the effort to lift the laden shovel left Sam's muscles burning in protest.

It was while he was tossing a pile onto the edge of the grave that he saw it. Just a blur, a flash of motion that caught his eye in just enough time for him to dive at Dean and slam him into the side of the pit. A rock whizzed past, close enough to brush a lock of hair at the base of his neck.

"Shit," Dean hissed, his eyes fixed behind Sam. "Looks like Piper figured out what we were up to."

Sam rolled to his feet and Dean followed, automatically holding his hands low, fingers interlocked, to give Sam a boost out of the grave. Sam vaulted himself out of the hole and over the soft mounds of dirt, snatching the crowbar from the nearby grass and spinning toward the translucent form of an angry, balding, somewhat undersized man racing toward him. He swung the crowbar even as he rolled back and reached an arm down to haul Dean out of the pit. His brother scrambled over the loose dirt and headed straight for the shotgun.

"We're almost there," he said, snatching the gun up from the grass. "I'll hold him off."

"Of course you will. Anything to get out of digging." But Sam was already jumping back into the hole because he _was_ actually faster at this than Dean.

He worked furiously, one ear cocked to the sounds above him. Dean was having a hell of a fight, because, small and balding though he may have been in life, Piper was a ghost now and ghosts were _fast._ He had just managed to clear the last of the soil from the rounded top of the casket when he heard, "Heads up, Sammy!"

He reached automatically for the crowbar as he spun, feeling the icy fingers on his back and then deeper, penetrating flesh, seeking out the vulnerable organs beneath skin and bone. The creeping chill remained even after the crowbar made contact and scattered the particles that made up the supernatural form.

Dean limped to the edge of the grave. "Would you hurry up—"

"Behind you!"

Dean spun, shot, turned back with a scowl. "Seriously! Move your ass!"

Sam broke the clasps with the shovel and pried open the casket. "Salt!" He leaned back, shielding himself from stray particles as Dean poured a cascade of salt down from above. He cursed, grunted, and then, "Catch!"

Sam didn't even have to know what was being thrown to know where it was headed. He reached up, right there on his right side. Dean might suck at digging but he had a masterful throwing arm and he always threw to exactly the same place, where Sam could catch with his dominant hand or dodge easily if his hands weren't free at just the moment of the throw. Every time.

Sam snatched the bottle of lighter fluid out of the air and hurriedly squirted it onto the body. The lighter followed, yanked from his back pocket and hurriedly lit before being tossed into the casket. The fluid caught in a burst of flame, and Sam heard Dean let out a relieved, "Oh, Jesus."

He slumped back against the side of the pit, laughing. Somehow the rush of adrenaline never got old.

Dean limped to the edge of the grave and looked in. He was favoring one leg and there was a scrape across his cheekbone, but he didn't look much worse for the wear.

"Took you long enough," he said.

"Yeah, I didn't figure you'd have so much trouble with one puny little ghost so I took a quick nap." He gathered up his tools and tossed them out of the pit.

"Hey! Those plaques in the ground are dangerous! Why can't they use headstones like normal people?"

"Plaques?" Sam grabbed the hand Dean offered and, with his help, climbed out of the hole. "You're telling me you hurt yourself tripping over a plaque?"

" _No_." He rolled his eyes. "I stepped on the corner of it and . . . twisted my ankle."

"Aww, poor wittle Dean. You want me to kiss it better?"

"Shut up."

The two of them collected their tools and weapons and headed back toward the car. Sam always felt a little guilty leaving a dug-up, burned-out grave behind them. But since there was no way to hide the fact that they'd been there digging holes in the smooth cemetery grass, and since the fire in the casket needed to burn itself out and not be smothered, well. There wasn't much of a choice. If they waited around until the fire went out, they only increased their chances of getting caught. They would just have to let the police deal with the vandalism report.

"There was a greasy spoon a couple miles north, wasn't there?" Dean asked, because he was always starving after a good fight.

"I think so." It wasn't Sam's first choice, but anything that didn't use lard as its primary ingredient was probably closed at this hour.

"Sweet."

They loaded the tools into the trunk and headed toward food.

Fifteen minutes later they were settled in the nearly deserted Club Car, a diner scattered with train kitsch, while a waitress placed two plates in front of them.

"That smells foul," Dean said with a pointed look at Sam's halibut and steamed squash.

"You know, most little boys develop a broader palate when they grow up."

"My palate is perfectly broad. Look at the range of flavors I've got here. Beef, bread, ketchup, mustard, _three kinds_ of cheese . . ."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm practical. We just burned a lot of energy out there. Gotta restore it to keep our strength up."

Sam plucked the pickle off of Dean's plate. There was no way Dean was going to eat it; it too closely resembled the vegetable it once had been. He took a bite, chewing as he absently dragged the book of poetry out of his bag and flipped to the poem about the Steinmeier brothers.

"Whatsha rea'in'" Dean asked around a mouthful of burger.

Sam shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know. It's this weird poem about these guys who climbed the same mountain fourteen hundred times."

Dean stopped chewing. "'Our'een huh'ra?"

"Maybe you could swallow before you try to talk?"

Dean plucked the book out of his hand, chewing and swallowing as he read through the poem.

"Wendigo," he said as he tossed the book back onto the table. "No—Wendigos go dormant. Acheri."

Sam snorted. "You think they were hunters?"

"Of course they were hunters. Why else would they keep climbing the same mountain?"

"What kind of hunter tries and fails to find something fourteen hundred times?"

"The kind who's sickly and anemic because he eats fish for dinner."

He rolled his eyes. "They weren't hunters."

"Maybe it was—ooh, I want some of that." His eyes followed a waiter who had just walked by with a slice of pie for another customer.

"You have the attention span of a gnat."

"Yeah, just a minute." Dean slid out of the booth and went to the counter, returning with his own slice of chocolate pie piled with whipped cream. " _French silk_ ," he said, nudging it toward Sam. "Want some?"

"I've barely started my dinner."

"So?"

"So . . . we should at least eat dinner before we start on dessert."

"Or what? We'll break the final seal and bring on the apocalypse? We'll destroy the Mark of Cain and unleash the Darkness? Been there, done that." He flashed Sam a grin and stuffed a big bite of pie into his mouth.

He moaned with pleasure. "Oh, Hammy. Ho goo'."

"It's like eating with a five-year-old."

Dean used his fork to divide the pie down the center, then plopped it in two forkfulls onto Sam's plate, right on top of his squash. "Try it," he said, his mouth clear now. "It's amazing. Creamy, chocolatey heaven."

"Dog with a bone," Sam muttered, and because he knew Dean wouldn't shut up until he did, he scooped up a small bite and ate it. And Dean was right. Crumbly crust, smooth chocolate filling with enough butter to make it absolutely decadent. It was probably the best diner pie he'd ever had.

"Werewolves," Dean said.

"What?"

"The mountain climbers. There was probably a pack, on the mountain who kept turning people, so they had to go up a bunch of times to hunt them all down."

"They weren't hunters, Dean."

"How do you know?"

"Because a hunter that needs fourteen hundred tries to take out a pack would get himself killed long before he ever got to try that many times."

"Okay, fine, they weren't hunters. Why'd they keep going back to the mountain, then?"

"I don't know." Sam stared thoughtfully at the text on the page. "I can't figure it out."

"Yeah, well, eat up. Saw a news clip earlier about a bunch of priests going missing in Montana. I figure it might have something to do with Amara."

"Priests? Like, Catholic?"

"Not just priests, I guess. Pastors, rabbis—all kinds of God types."

"Okay." Sam ran through a mental inventory of the gear in their trunk. They were pretty well stocked since his supply run earlier, though at some point he was going to have to pick up that industrial sized coffee thermos. It was a pretty good idea. "Back on the road tomorrow."

Dead raised his burger with a rueful smile. "Cheers."


End file.
